Of course he doesn’t say anything about the boxes. He’s too polite. He probably thinks it’s always there.
In an instant, I’m opening boxes, searching, heart racing. Fucking Garth. The boxes are damp. My clothes are soaked from the rain. I feel sick. I’m going to throw up. I push a box aside, searching.
“Jordan, what’s going on?” His voice sounds very far away as blood rushes through my ears. “What’s all this?”
“My records.” I’m absent, focused on finding them. “And my record player.”
If they’re damaged, if they’re ruined, I’ll—I don’t know. Cry. Scream. Die. I’ll totally lose it. They were hers, and they’re all I have left of her. They’re my only way to feel connected to her, listening to those records and thinking about her.
I shove a soggy box out of the way, onto the ground, and therethey are. Tossed in a box carelessly, exactly like they’re not supposed to be stored, but thankfully, they’re dry and undamaged. The record player is at the bottom of the box. I don’t know if it still works, it might have been dropped and broken, but hopefully I can order a replacement part or something.
Holy fuck. I let out a long exhale, closing my eyes, tipping my face back.
“Jordan.” He says my name so softly, and when I open my eyes, he’s studying me with concern. He reaches to touch my face before thinking better of it and pulling back. “You’re crying.”
I blink, wiping my face. Oh my god. What’s wrong with me? I’m a mess. “It’s rain.” I look away so he doesn’t see my red eyes. “The rain got on my face. You can...” I gesture at the ground. “Put her down, I guess.”
My mind races as I haul the heavy box under the awning so it doesn’t get wet. I don’t know what to do. I’m evicted, obviously. Did Garth see the cat leaving the apartment? He must have.
Why,whydid I bring this demon cat home when I knew I was on my last strike here? I glance at her and she gives me that dumb, snaggletoothed look.
Because I couldn’t leave her. Because she’s hideous and mean and alone. She has no one.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell Tate, hands on my hips, staring at my pile of stuff. “I can take it from here.”
“Can we go see what’s going on?” he asks, his tone gentle and careful like I’ve never heard. “Please?”
I chance a look at him, about to protest.
“I’m not leaving,” he says, still gentle, but firm.
I shrug and let him follow me up the stairs to my apartment.
Papers are taped to my front door—the same ones I’ve been seeing around the building as people get renovicted for various reasons—late rent, smoking pot in their unit, noise too loud too late at night.
Pets are not allowed in this building!!!!Garth wrote under “reason for eviction.”
“You adopted a cat when you’re not allowed to have pets?” Tate asks in a low voice like I’m the dumbest person in the entire world.
I stare at the eviction notice. “Yep.”
I need to find a place to stay, and I need to bring the cat and the records and the record player. I should call a rideshare. It’ll need to be pet friendly.
He sighs. “What are you going to do, Jordan?”
“I’ll call Georgia.”
“They’ll be sleeping.”
It’s one-thirty in the morning. They’re definitely sleeping and I hate hate hate the idea of inconveniencing them like that. “Maybe not.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “If they’re not sleeping, they’re in bed doing something else.”
Ugh. They would be. Lovebirds. Blech. Do I really want to interrupt them boning? No. No, I do not.
“I’ll go to a hotel.”
“One that takes pets?”
